Chapter 4
Ellie
I remember being utterly mesmerized by the drive to Tewkesbury Estate last year, and this year is no different. The wide-open countryside, the small, winding roads that lead up to the long private driveway before my favorite part—the main house and grounds. There’s something so commanding about the way the manor sits in the center of the most perfect gardens I’ve ever seen. The horses that graze in the pastures that border the driveway look like they should be on a postcard.
How I would love to paint them.
I chase the thought away, busying myself with staying close—but not too close —to my mother’s car.
Sanya and I gossiped for almost the entire drive, and for the past twenty minutes I’ve been listening to her describe some of the letters that Rory’s written to her these past few months.
“If he included some of his famous Love Coupons in those letters, tell him you’d like a refund.” I joke, remembering his rather lack-luster birthday gift to her last year.
The gravel crunches softly underneath the tires of the trailer as we follow my mother’s car up the driveway to the main house. I know she’s taking in every detail, inspecting every tree, every fence panel on our approach.
Mother has been friends with the Chamberlain family for years. Long before I was born, she and Lord Chamberlain’s sister went to the same boarding school. They stayed close throughout the years, building a friendship around horses and other expensive past times.
It’s the main, if only, reason she approved of the relationship between myself and Lord Chamberlain’s nephew, Peter Holstrom.
I groan as I dredge up the memory of our three-year relationship, the groan deepens as we approach the house and Peter’s red sports car becomes visible.
“Ah,” Sanya sighs, “I was wondering how you were feeling about that. ”
I shake my head with a sigh, keeping my eyes on the steering wheel as we trundle along.
Peter and I had started seeing each other when I was nineteen, he had been seven years my senior, but I hadn’t seen it as a problem at the time. Now that my frontal lobe is mostly fully developed, it’s easier to see why it was, in fact, a problem. The power dynamic was unhealthy, to say the least, and given that he had been my first boyfriend—my first everything—I ended up letting a lot of things slide.
I’d thought we’d had this unwavering connection over our love for horses and dressage, and had seen our relationship as something that could only help with my future goal of becoming an Olympian .
Peter hadn’t turned out to be the man I thought he was.
Who would have guessed that my very first boyfriend would not end up being the single greatest love of my life?
He hated it when I performed well at my dressage shows, always finding ways to pick apart my performance afterwards—even if I had placed, or even won. My mother always saw this as a good thing, she thought that he was pushing me to be the best. But the truth of the matter was that he simply preferred having the spotlight on himself, he could never stand to see someone else achieve something that he perceived to be beyond his own reach.
After three years of this, I decided I couldn’t take his constant barrage of negativity. Having a mother who is always quick to point out my shortcomings is one thing, since she does it because I’m her daughter and she wants what’s best for me, but to have the man I thought I loved picking me apart for no apparent reason was utterly exhausting.
Sadly, we both ended up making the British Equestrian Team for the first time a few months after our breakup two years ago. We’d naturally spent most of our time around each other before making the team, on top of the added dynamic of being romantically involved. Being skilled dressage riders meant that we saw each other at nearly every event, every social gathering. But the first summer training camp we’d attended at Tewkesbury Estate had been fraught with uncomfortable tension and strange, unwanted advances on his part.
I hadn’t let it mar my time at the beautiful estate, having spent most of my very limited free time with Sanya and Rory—we’d had a spectacular summer, and I improved my dressage skills exponentially under the strict tutelage of the team Coach and my mother.
But a part of me had almost forgotten that the blond-haired man now standing and chatting with our coach and teammates would even be attending this idyllic training retreat.
“It won’t be as bad as last year,” I say as I pull into the parking area between the house and the stables. “Besides, I’m almost certain he’s shagging one of the twins now anyway.” Sure enough, Charlotte and Philippa Astor—both three-year veterans on the team—stand flanking Peter, fawning over every word that falls from his mouth. “To be honest,” I say as I turn off the ignition, “I hope he is, maybe it’ll keep his attentions far away from me.”
“I’d say you might be right,” She pauses, weighing up my statement, “If it weren’t for the fact that you’re disgustingly stunning.” I give her an unimpressed glare, which she shakes off in classic Sanya fashion. “You’ve got this whole natural beauty thing going on and it’s actually really fucking annoying,” She reaches for the tips of my unbound hair, running her fingers through the ends as she continues, “I think it’s the blond hair—natural, not a hint of bleach in these silky strands—and green eye combo. Double whammy, then you add in a flawless complexion and smattering of freckles,” She lifts her right hand and rubs her fingers against her thumb as if she’s sprinkling salt onto a plate of food, “Top it off with a generous serving of arse and tits?” She looks at my chest pointedly, as if offended by the natural curves of my body. “He really didn’t stand a chance, El. This is all your fault really.”
“ Excuse me?” I choke on a laugh.
“You know, I hate to say it,” she says with a solemn shake of her head.
“You really don’t hate to say it—”
“What did I tell you five years ago when we were just a couple of eighteen-year-old spring chickens?” She waits for my response, and I huff a sigh of defeat.
“ Don’t shit where you eat .” We say in unison as we unbuckle our seatbelts and exit the horse box.
I walk around the front of the vehicle to find my mother already striding for where Coach and the rest of the team are gathered. There are nine people on the squad this year, but I honestly haven’t bothered to learn much about our other teammates who haven’t arrived yet.
Charlotte and Philippa are both dressage riders, as are Peter and myself. Sanya and one other member of the team are show jumpers and the other three riders are cross country competitors.
Sanya links her arm with mine as we make our way towards the group, I don’t miss the way she scans the surrounding area for signs of a freckled face. I watch as she shoots off a quick text before turning her attention to the people who are now greeting my mother and watching us approach.
“Five pounds says Peter inserts himself so far up her arse in the next five minutes we can barely see his little feet dangling out of her.” I whisper through barely open lips.
“I’m not a betting woman,” She hisses, “And I really hate losing money.” She playfully jabs her elbow into my ribs just as Peter releases my mother from a hug.
“So good to see you, Peter.” She croons as she wraps him in a tight embrace.
Sanya and I begin muttering our hellos to the twins before Coach gives us both his standard shoulder-pat welcome.
Richard Wareham has been the coach of the British Equestrian Team for fifteen years. He’s a decorated rider in his own right, having been to three Olympic games and on the receiving end of multiple medals. He has a few extra staff members that run around and do a lot of behind-the-scenes work, admin and paperwork mostly, but they’re essential to running a well-oiled ship. I watch as one of his seasoned assistants from last year runs between two different cars, a phone pressed up to her ear and several clipboards stacked in her arms.
My attention is dragged back to where my mother is still holding on to Peter’s forearms as my ex-boyfriend says, “My mother sends her regards, she plans to visit in the next couple of weeks.” His voice sends shivers of the worst kind across my skin. He leans in a little closer to my mother and I grip Sanya’s arm tighter as he says softly, “Though she was sad to hear that this year’s training camp is being held at this dump again. We both agreed that your country estate puts this place to shame.” He finishes with a wink before standing straight.
I swear I hear Sanya swallow a snort of laughter as my mother bats Peter on the arm in playful dismissal, though I know she’s loving every minute of this interaction.
“There’s just the small issue of accommodation at your estate, Edith.” Coach approaches her with a smile, kissing both of her cheeks before adding, “You could convert one or two of those barns, then Chamberlain would have some real competition.”
“Don’t give me any ideas, Richard.” She says with a coy smile.
The sound of rushed footsteps turns my attention to the stables where I see a head of deep red hair emerge as Rory turns his excited run into a more collected walk. The moment Sanya sees him, her arm tightens around mine, but the sweet reunion is interrupted by my mother’s sharp tongue.
“Well, Eleanor.” She snaps, all the joy and lightheartedness from before has disappeared, making me wonder if I ever really saw it in her face at all. “Are you just going to stand there like a melon or are you going to unbox your horse? I suppose you’re waiting for someone else to do it for you.”
I’m turning on my heel before she can hiss another word, unlinking my arm from Sanya’s as I retreat towards the horsebox. I’m glad for the small mercy of not having to see the expressions on Peter or the twin’s faces, though my brain conjures up some all-too realistic possibilities.
Rory stops on the far side of the horsebox as we approach, I know Sanya’s right behind me before she gently squeezes my arm in a gesture that shouldn’t be as comforting as it is. I smile at her as she sweeps past me on her way to greet our friend, who is not-so-stealthily backing up around the side of the horsebox to shield their greeting from prying eyes.
Not wanting to be a third wheel, or a melon , I turn my attention to the horsebox door and the ramp behind it. I swing the doors open, using my voice to coo at Remi as I lower the ramp. I climb into the box, running my hand over his muzzle before I start to unfasten the lead rope that’s tied to his stall. My teeth grind in the back of my skull as I replay my mother’s words in my head. Why would she say that in front of my peers, and my coach? Why is it so hard to treat me with an ounce of—
Remi jerks his head backwards, breaking his halter from the lead rope as he tries to rear in the confined travel stall. I throw myself out of the way, stumbling and falling to the ground to avoid his flailing hooves. Remi jumps from the trailer, missing the ramp entirely before galloping down the path that leads past the stables.
“ Fuck ,” I hiss as I stand, my palms are grazed from where they broke my fall, my arse is throbbing from the impact, but I’m mostly unharmed.
I was too busy feeling sorry for myself to unload him quickly, in the way we’ve practiced countless times with trainers and horse psychologists. I’d been too wrapped up in my own thoughts to put Remi’s needs first and I’m so annoyed at myself.
Calling myself a string of foul names, I brush my stinging palms against my legs. I don’t stop to ask Sanya or Rory for help as I sprint after my bolting horse. I hear them call after me, voices full of panic and concern as I chase after the shrinking brown dot that is my stupid fucking horse.
But I know the fault doesn’t lie with him.
Perhaps I really am just a melon.